


Squeeze

by misanthropyray



Series: A Tentative Affair [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Other, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-03
Updated: 2011-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:57:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropyray/pseuds/misanthropyray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock vs The Tentacles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Squeeze

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Хватка](https://archiveofourown.org/works/735239) by [Oruga](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oruga/pseuds/Oruga)



> Warning: Description of a dead body, Non-Con/Very, very Dub-con, what the BBC would call “Scenes of a disturbing nature”.  
> Beta-ed by thisprettywren who never fails to inspire my awe.

The greenhouse was stifling, even though the night outside was bitter. Overhead fans whirred and puffed out clouds of air, thick with moisture which clung to the leaves of the tropical plants housed there.

The Met police officers stood around the body with increasing discomfort. Their uniforms became saturated and started clinging to their sweat soaked bodies, humidity condensing on their confused frowns and dribbling down to absorb into browning shirt collars. The naked body lying below them stood in sharp contrast against the mossy floor of the greenhouse; it had certainly been a male but it was impossible to tell what age he might have been before death. His skin was shrivelled, pulled tightly over his drawn muscles and stark skeleton, a sickly palette of browns and purples, his face a frozen image of pain and surprise.

“The body’s been completely dehydrated. The poor guy doesn’t have a drop left in ‘im.” said Lestrade, brushing the perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve.

Sherlock swooped down to the near-mummified corpse, running his hands over the hardened folds of skin covering the body. He leaned in closer, moving his hands across the dry landscape of the body’s arm,. Cocking his head, he pushed his fingertips under the man’s ribcage, before withdrawing them to stare at the gelatinous fluid covering his gloves.

“Wait, what is that?” said Lestrade, taking a step forward and peering over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Take some samples. We won’t know until the lab results come back.”

Sherlock stared at the gloves, touching his fingers together and drawing them apart, stretching the substance into shining threads that swayed between them. Wafting it under his nose and tentatively inhaling, he arranged the facts in his head, incorporating the new data and shifting around the pieces of the puzzle until they snapped into perfect interconnection.

There was a piece missing.

Sherlock stood up abruptly, snapping the gloves off and pushing through the cluster of police officers. John followed faithfully, sighing and offering a flurry of apologies.

They ignored the confused calls of the police officers behind them and strode away from the steamed windows of the hothouse, down the leafy path back to the main road.

“Sherlock, aren’t you going to tell them anything?”

“They’ll figure it out. Probably.”

“Will they?”

“Probably not.”

“Where are we going?”

“Fact finding, John.”

They managed to find a taxi with relative ease in the bustling late evening traffic, pushing out into the flow of cars and through the winding streets headed north towards the flat. Sherlock folded down the opposing seat in the taxi and put his feet up on it, lying back and closing his eyes, flicking through every possible permutation of his mental images of the crime scene.

After a wordless 10 minutes he snapped back into life, rapping his knuckles on the Perspex partition to signal the driver to pull over.

“Go back to the flat. I need you to find the book on my desk written by Dr Belvedere. I need you to read it to check for any similarities to this crime.” Sherlock climbed out of the car before John had even had a second to process the information.

“Wait, what?” John called helplessly behind him as the door slammed closed and the taxi slid away from the curb.

* * *

Avoiding the ever present eye of the security cameras, Sherlock approached the side entrance to the Royal Horticultural Society, following the narrow alley to the side of the decadent, sandstone building.

He picked the lock of the shadow covered door. It gave with a heavy click and he stepped through into the darkness of the corridor, sparsely lit by a few oil lamps, which burned in their glass prisons and emitted a sickly, yellow glow. Keeping his steps light, he crept in the shadows, peering into the private offices which opened off the main corridor. The offices were stuffy and lined with shelves of books. There wasn’t a hint of technology anywhere, no computers, no phones; they could easily have been set at the turn of the previous century.

A solid brass plaque signalled the door to Dr Belvedere’s office. The room had a musty smell with feint hints of smoke. He moved through the dark room to confirm his theory, finding the fragile remains of burned paper in the waste bin. A single white corner of paper remained, but there was nothing written. Whatever Gladys Belvedere had been trying to hide had gone for good.

The rest of the desk was conspicuously tidy, desk drawers all empty.

She was leaving, but where was she going? Was she the ringleader or simply the pawn? The proof was in the building somewhere, he was sure of it.

Sherlock left the abandoned office. He edged forward, listening to the light tap of his shoes against the stone floor and his own shallow breath. He followed the corridor round a corner and was faced with a heavy, locked door, incongruous in its setting and obviously housing the evidence he sought. The lock took far more manipulation than the main entrance before it gave up its guard duty and allowed Sherlock to pass into the chamber beyond.

The small room acted like an airlock, separated from the main space by a heavy, sliding door edged with thick, plastic skirting which Sherlock moved with a guttural heave. A wave of heat washed over him as the door creaked shut into place behind him and he advanced into the indoor rainforest ahead of him. The ceiling was impossibly high and made of glass and lead, thin moonlight filtering down through the upper canopy. Vines clung to the walls and lined the vague path through the centre, between the thick trees. Either side of the pathway, tropical plants sprawled into the distance, covering every colour known to the human eye, all twisting together to form an endless horizon.

The room was silent, with no traces of any inhabiting wildlife.

Sherlock knew the answer was here somewhere; it would be obvious as soon as he set eyes on it, but was thoroughly illusive until then. Scanning his surroundings at a lightening pace, he moved through the tropical chamber until he saw something reflecting light from one of the tree trunks towards the centre.

 _That’s it, it has to be._

He stepped off the path, his feet disappearing into the shrubbery below and rising with a covering of rich, black earth. Sherlock picked carefully through the undergrowth, finally reaching the trunk with its ragged bark, slicked with the same viscous fluid found at the crime scene.

It might be enough evidence to justify a warrant but he’d have to collect more hard evidence against the Society somehow to ensure arrest. As he thought about returning to the corridor and searching the rest of the dusty offices, he felt movement by one of his feet. He moved his leg quickly away from the sliding contact, parting the thick mass of leaves in an attempt to see what lay beneath.

The silence was broken by the rustling of leaves behind him and Sherlock spun round to investigate the source of the disturbance. He peered into the murky darkness, seeing nothing. The leaves started moving again, this time to his right and getting closer, his confidence faltering as he stepped back from the sound, edging away in the half light. Silence filled the air again and he let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

Sherlock stood perfectly still, ears concentrating on any minute sound, eyes darting about his surroundings, muscles frozen. Nothing happened, nothing broke the crushing stillness, so he began to make his way back to the path.

After two steps, he stopped again.

This time it wasn't silent observation that quieted him, but the feeling of something warm wrapping around his ankle and squeezing gently. After a beat, he flicked his foot, trying to free himself, pulling against his unseen bonds; with every slight resistance, the grip tightened. Uneasiness was replaced by the first vestiges of fear and Sherlock hit away the foliage blocking his vision to uncover his silent captor.

Coiled around his leg was a thick vine, deep green and clearly flora but moving in an entirely animalistic manner: its upper side was smooth and with a rubber-like appearance, whereas underneath lay row after row of raised ridges to grip and hold fast. Sherlock dug his fingers underneath the end of the vine in an attempt to unwrap it and free his captive limb, but as soon as he had made contact, another vine darted out of the foliage and wrapped itself firmly around his wrist, sharply pulling it away. In the split second it took for him to process this information, his other arm and leg had been bound as tightly as the first and he was being dragged to the floor.

He hit the soft earth awkwardly, desperately rotating his wrists, trying to tense and slacken in an attempt to claw back some room to manoeuvre out of the creature’s grasp. When he reached the floor, the tentacles binding him seemed to multiply, emerging out of the underbrush from all angles, some much thinner and paler, but still lightning fast in their movements. The thin tendrils coiled around his arms and legs in an endless writhing net, the thicker tentacles burrowing underneath him and wrapping around his torso, working themselves up and under his shirt, shredding the thin purple fabric in their wake.

Sherlock was all too soon at the mercy of the creature, splayed supine on the floor. The vines pulsed and twitched on his skin, roaming and investigating, their weight shifting and changing but grip remaining unshakable. The humid heat of the room bore down on him as his lungs worked harder, pushing against the pressure on his ribs; his muscles ached from an endless battle for control over his own limbs.

As his entire being fixated on drawing vital oxygen, Sherlock could feel some of the thinner vines creeping up his neck. They tickled and danced over his skin, almost stroking at him, moving upwards and inching across his cheek, the rounded tips settling just beneath his nose as he thrashed his head to dislodge them. There was a gentle hiss as they released a puff of gas directly into his nostrils. By the time Sherlock realised anything had happened, it was already too late. The effects of the gas hit him like a wave, starting with a rising warmth that enveloped his body; not the humid heat that clung to his skin, forcing out his perspiration, but a tingling pleasure that coursed through his veins.

All his muscles stopped fighting for a moment, slackening in the creature’s grasp, leaving the plant to roam over the planes of his skin. The vines edged up and inside his trouser legs, expanding inside and leaving a path of ripped fabric and smooth skin.

Sherlock's breath came in shuddering gasps, his body overwhelmed by a fierce desire that crushed all vestiges of rational thought. The idea of escape which had previously occupied his brain had been replaced by a single, solitary _need_.

The tentacles continued their dance across his skin, the tough ridges rippling and pressing and rolling against him. He felt the sturdy weight of one of the thicker vines creeping across his thigh. He’d been so distracted by the pleasure signals flooding in from every point of contact that he’d failed to notice his own desperately straining erection. When the rounded tip of the tentacle ran along his length, his breath stuck in his throat and his back arched into the contact shamelessly.

A deep groan escaped his chest and the creature continued its delicious torture. A writhing knot of smaller vines ripped the line in his trousers further and further, eventually leaving Sherlock exposed and mindlessly trying to thrust his hips into any kind of contact. He didn’t have to wait long. The lively, thinner vines wrapped themselves around his solid cock, synchronising and rippling themselves along his length.

The sensation was overwhelming and Sherlock’s head dropped back against the soft mud beneath him, eyes glassy and unseeing. As he felt the tentacles undulate and circle around the sensitive slit in his cock, his mouth opened wide to let out a guttural cry. Before any sound could escape, Sherlock was muted by a thick vine resting itself across his neck and pushing into his mouth.

The ridges on the underside of the vine stroked against his searching tongue as the vine pushed inside him. Sherlock barely noticed when his mouth was filled with a sticky, sweet substance which slid down his throat, leaving a trail of desperate desire in its path. The vine eased in further, creeping into his throat. His muscles clamped down in unconscious complaint until another wave of sweetness spurted from the vine; his throat relaxed around it in acceptance, allowing the slow thrust and withdraw rhythm.

As he writhed in pleasure, his fevered brain barely acknowledged one of the tentacles sliding between his legs and beginning to push firmly against his entrance. It paused for a moment, neither advancing or relenting, simply applying an exploratory pressure, before the vine began to excrete more of its sticky residue and pushed inside. The thick tentacle throbbed inside him, undulating and penetrating, making every nerve ending sing. It twisted and inflated, its movements entirely alien to Sherlock's open and vulnerable body.

From somewhere inside his coat bunched beneath him, his phone began to vibrate and ring, the noise jarring in the eerie silence. The moment the phone began to cut through the quiet, the creature froze. Sherlock’s mind returned to him in a sudden rush and he thrashed against the vines still gripping him in their stasis.

His mind flashed back to the corridor he’d come through to get here.

 _Of course!_

He kicked himself, for not realising before; the oil lamps, the glass ceilings, the total lack of...

The moment the noise from the phone disappeared, the creature stirred into life again. The clouds rolled back into Sherlock’s head, filling every corner of his mind with intense and unbridled pleasure, pushing all rational thought so deep it may have never seen the light of day again.

He squirmed under the onslaught, tiny points of pressure smoothing over his aching cock in complex patterns of stimulation, the throbbing vine thrusting deep inside him as the plant’s smaller feelers stroked around his stretched, puckered hole, and the rubbery tentacle that poured wave after wave of the mysterious aphrodisiac down his throat.

His hips shuddered, wild and without any hint of rhythm, pushing into the endless stimulation of his body and giving in to the burning heat, starting in his pelvis and radiating out. Tiny feelers danced and played across his tightening balls, pushing him over the edge as he came, emitting a throaty, muffled cry. He released pulse after pulse of hot liquid onto the plant, bucking his hips upwards with force and splashing his semen on the net of feelers that continued to grip him.

Once he’d started, he couldn’t stop. The feelers quickened their work, massaging and squeezing him, milking each new, impossible wave from him. The pleasure began to recede, only to be replaced by ache throbbing deeply inside him.

As the dull ache in his stomach turned into a sharp stab of pain, Sherlock’s phone sang out from his pocket again. The creature froze, but its grip held strong as Sherlock struggled weakly against his bonds.

The moment the phone stopped ringing, the creature sprang back into life, but only for a few seconds before the phone rang again.

 _John must be getting impatient._

This time, the plant seemed weakened by the electromagnetic fields radiating from the phone. The tentacles closest to his right pocket were affected first; weakening and shrivelling. He choked, his throat clamping down on the vine in his mouth with enough force to dislodge it and send it sliding limply across his face and down his neck.It left a trail of warm liquid dribbling across his cheek as it fell. He arched his back and expanded his chest until some of the smaller vines holding him in place simply snapped and curled away.

Hands, he needed to free his hands. He rested for a second, inhaling and gathering his strength before concentrating on a heave of force to regain control of his right hand. There was some resistance left in the creature’s grip, but not enough to fight back this time.

The phone paused for a few seconds once more before John tried the line again, but it wasn’t enough time for the plant to recover from the damage of sustained exposure.

He grabbed the thick vine still penetrating him, violating him, and yanked it out with a hiss. The vine had expanded inside of him and he couldn’t help a sharp intake of breath as he watched it vacating of his body and dropping back onto the soil with a gentle thud.

Soon, Sherlock was able to dislodge himself entirely from the creature’s deadly grasp.

Sherlock stood on shaking, sore legs, staring down at the creature that was browning at the edges and secreting its own translucent fluid all over the soil. With all the force he could muster, he raised a foot and slammed down the heel of his shoe directly into the browning mass of tentacles, grinding and tearing at the wilted plan, leaving a pool of gelatinous gunk.

He picked his way back to the path, buttoning his coat from neck to knee and shoving the remains of his shredded trousers into a pocket.

* * *

His mouth was painfully dry and his limbs were still aching and slow as he hailed a taxi on Victoria Street and gave the destination.

A 20 minute cab ride later, he threw a tenner at the driver and launched himself through the front door of 221b, careful to keep his pace and gait a perfect facsimile of normal, and strode quickly across the lounge to his room.

Seconds later, John was knocking on his bedroom door with increasing aggression.

“Sherlock, where the _hell_ have you been?” John shouted through the door. “I’ve been calling your phone.”

Sherlock, presentable in fresh clothes, opened the door to face John, his unknowing saviour.

“I know. Thank you.”


End file.
